I find myself feeling hollow inside.

An inexplicable sadness wells up inside of me, as I think of vulnerability, of friendship, of loss.

I have a friend who is ill. At the same time, she is bursting with life. I cannot reconcile the part of me that cares so much for her, that values her, that appreciates her -- with the part of me that is afraid of how much it will hurt when she slips away.

I play a game that isn't fair to either of us. Push, pull. Close to me, away. I don't even think she knows of these struggles; these games. In many ways they are all in my head : excuses and ideas and justifications. I struggle to define her in one moment, and shake my head in awe at who she is the next. With one breath I am angry with her for something she didn't do; with the next gasp of air, I'm slumped over the computer, in tears and awe of her strength, her devotion for her children, her sanity.

I read up on her disease today, after I saw numbers for the first time. It was something she'd been careful not to reveal, and then suddenly -- there they were in front of me. For the first time I really connected with this thought: "if they don't find a cure, she is going to die." For the first time the reality slammed into me with outstretched claws.

I cried quietly as I surfed sites seeking information. I felt myself close up -- as a flower who has decided to pull back its blossom and its beauty. I wanted to be angry. But at who? I wanted to hurt somebody. But how? I wanted to grab the celestial fabric of the world in my hand and shred it to pieces, screaming all the while.

And then I felt the slow retraction. I felt the internal mechanisms of protection slowly begin to tug my emotions and my dedication back into the bubble of safety. I felt myself shut down. Felt the feelings go away. Felt the deadness return.

There has been so much pain.

Earlier today I was reminded of what would happen to me if I didn't absolutely clean the dishes; if even one speck of food was left anywhere. I remember being taught how to feel the dirt on the ceramic; I remember being threatened with blindness. And there was so much more to it than that. So much more that I can't begin to tell -- though I try; though I struggle with the stories chopped up and floating around inside of me.

And somewhere along the line, I am filled with a fury that says : haven't I had enough?

It's an ongoing thinking of entitlement -- something that enrages me when I see it in other survivors (it reminds me too much of myself), something that slams hard against a wall and shatters when I look at pictures of Yugoslavia or famine in 3rd world countries, or get out of my self-absorbed ego and open my eyes to the global picture around me.

Even amongst all of that, this moment matters. And I feel American and guilty and selfish. I feel ungrateful, I feel like a spoiled brat. All of the words of my father, my grandmother, the abusers I've had over the years echo in my head, "you just don't know how good you've got it."

How good is it to lay under your father's unbearable weight as he fucks you so hard you think you might split in two? How good is it to be manipulated with looks -- to be so afraid of your father that he can give you a certain expression and you instantly do as he demands?

Is that good compared to having your sister blown up, your country taken away, stealing food out of trash cans or not eating at all?

How good do any of us have it? How good can it ever be?

Goddamnit, I hate terminal illness. I hate cancer and aids. I hate child abuse and famine and earthquakes and diseases and war and children born with only one arm and no legs, and parents that die too young, and babies that die in the crib, and that we have to die at all. I hate that in the middle of all of this trouble and trauma and ugliness, we've only got each other. I hate that each other can be taken away.